


Marry the Night

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld
Genre: F/M, One Month to Live, unfinished work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Susan Sto-Helit, Death's granddaughter, learns that she has one month to live. She takes up the challenge.</p><p>The work is unfinished and possibly abandoned.</p><p>But hey, free in case I never finish it--the ending would be that Vetinari catches Susan waiting invisibly in his office (he would!) they tryst for a few days, and then--she tries to rescue him by throwing a coat rack at an assassin who throws a sword rather better at her. After killing the assassin, Vetinari holds her until DEATH opens his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marry the Night

Susan was putting her two charges to bed. Not the Gaiter children—they'd grown older now and didn't need her—but friends of the Gaiters, who also shared terrible child-naming skills. Currently she was the governess to Gwenny and Lanny—Guinevere and Lancelot. They were twins of eight, and she was giving them the educational stories she'd used before:

“The skeleton asked the witch whether she wanted to be rescued from the town folk who were just reaching the edge of her garden. They were carrying pitchforks and torches, in the official regalia for hunting witches.

“She said yes, and he said, 'everything has a price.' The price he offered was for her to become an independent woman who used healing arts and grew useful herbs.

“She looked straight at the skeleton and said, 'Are you playing with me, Mister?'

“The skeleton grinned and snapped his fingers, and the figures marching up the hill shook their heads and stopped. Then they looked at the pitchforks and other farm implements and asked the witch, “Do you need help with your garden, Mistress?”

“So they ploughed a larger plot for her, and pulled weeds, trimmed back vines, and banked their oily torches at her fireplace, ready to be set alight again. They mucked out the goats' pen with their pitchforks, and stacked it where she showed them how to add weeds, scraps, rubbish, in a sequence which would produce the finest earth to spread on their plants. She showed them the three-crop rotation which would keep their fields sweet and fertile.

“Afterwards, she brought out pitchers of herb cordials, slices of grilled pumpkins, cheeses, and hot roast potatoes, and two full butter dishes. And they never came up to her cottage again except to ask for healing and fresh herbs.”

Susan finished, and pulled the quilts up over their shoulder.

Gwenny cried out, “Look! There's a skellington! Thee!”

Susan automatically scanned the windowsill, looking for Death of Rats and the raven, but to her surprise she saw the large white horse, and the pale rider in his black cowl. He'd never shown himself so openly to her charges.

“Yes, he's a skeleton. And now you two get back to bed.”

Lanny's lip started to quiver, and he complained. “You're supposed to read us two stories!”

DEATH said to Susan. COME WITH ME. I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.

“Why now? I haven't seen you for months. You haven't even sent the rat or the bird, and you show up just when I'm getting them settled down?

Lanny persisted in his complaints. “Two stories, Miss! You supposed to read two!”

She was unnerved enough to barter. “You can visit with the skeleton while I get my cloak.”

Quickly stepping to her room—not in the least bit small or uncomfortable, and with its own tiny fireplace (her clients knew what she was worth), she picked up a heavy cloak and threw it over her shoulders. She called to the parents, who were sitting around a comfortable fire, and told them she'd be out for a few minutes.

Back in the children's bedroom, DEATH was letting Gwenny and Lanny tap on his ribs with Lanny's little drumstick, producing xylophone sounds. She'd never been jealous, but watching the little ones take liberties like this made her throat tighten.

He looked up and although it is hard to read expressions on a face which is all bone, she could tell he was embarrassed. He shrugged his scapula at her.

“Back to bed, you two. Time to leave the skeleton alone.”

Then they both turned to the wall and stepped through it. He had moved a few yards away into a dark alley, which hid him from the street. She came up to the glowing white horse and rubbed the soft nose.

“Hello, Binky. I don't have any sugar. Sorry.”

HELLO, SUSAN. YOU ARE WELL.

It wasn't a question, of course. “You know I am, or I'd be seeing you, I suppose!”

PLEASE COME RIDE WITH ME.

He almost never said please, and she was suspicious.  
“I can't be away for too long—I have my children to think of.”

IT WILL NOT TAKE LONG. 

Even more suspicious. He usually tried to offer small talk, at which he was terrible. So, unnerved, she stepped up into the stirrup he offered, and sat behind him. It had been ages since she rode with him. Binky, however, did not take to the skies, but ambled off the Ankh-Morpork streets in search of DEATH's favorite curry house, at the corner of God Street and Blood Alley. When Binky whickered at the window in the back, a hand with a bag shot straight out, then slammed the window. There was an upturned table in the small trashy area behind the restaurant, and DEATH righted it, picking up two stools and motioning him to join her. It was chilly and clammy, and she pulled her cloak tighter.

“What's the matter this time? It's not Hogswatch.”

DEATH picked at the curry, not saying anything.

“What? You must have a very good reason, or you'd have sent the rat. Although of course I've asked you not to, it's never stopped you before.” She was almost tempted to kick him in the shin, knowing it wouldn't hurt him. But it would be rude.

He finally set down his fork. It wasn't possible for a grinning skull to look sad, and for his leaden tones to be even heavier, but she could sense an emotional change in him. How, she couldn't have said. He didn't have glands to make any emotions, but she'd known him all her life. She pulled the wrap tighter, not knowing what to expect.

SUSAN, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.

She instantly discovered why denial was such a universal human thing. “Why, of course I'm going to die. Everybody is. That's what keeps you in business, isn't it?”

She involuntarily took stock of her surroundings, to keep her grounded in life. She could smell the spicy curry, and the warm basmati rice. She heard the cooks yelling to each other in the kitchen a few feet behind the closed doors. The street life of Ankh-Morpork continued in front of the store, barkers yelling, snatches of music playing, screams of delighted children—children which were out very much too late, she noted with disapproval. 

She fancied she could even then hear the patter of a licensed thief. “Good evening, sir, madam, may I just have your purses, and let me tell you about our special offer tonight. For the price of only ten Ankh-Morpork dollars, you will experience no more accostments for an entire year. Or for our low-low price of 18 dollars, you will be unbothered for two years, plus I have this set of cutlery...”

And there was the smell, of course. In the springtime, meltwater from the Ramtops almost turned the Ankh into a real river. It flowed more then than at any other time, but didn't carry away much of the miasma. There were a few leggy rosebushes which nearly concealed the odor. She could even smell her own sweat which had sprung up despite the cool.

“What? Why are you here?” 

SUSAN, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE IN ONE MONTH.

She put her hand over her mouth. It wasn't worth asking him, “Are you sure?” Being sure was his business.

“How—you can't just tell me that and walk away! What's going to happen to me?” She hated whiners, and she wasn't whining now. She might have been pleading a little.

He shook his head and the black cowl slipped over his face. 

I CAN'T TELL YOU WHAT WILL HAPPEN. I AM BREAKING THE RULES TO TELL YOU EVEN THIS MUCH.

“You can't be serious. Show up at my door, tell me I've got a month to live and then...what? You'll just go away again? To Death's Domain?”

YOU COULD COME WITH ME.

An cold tingle went down her body. “No.”

I AM MAKING YOU THE SAME OFFER I DID YOUR PARENTS. YOU CAN COME WITH ME.

He'd explained years earlier that he'd offered her parents immortality, and they'd refused. Her mother had been rescued by him, on a whim, and had lived to be sixteen years old. She'd stayed sixteen for thirty-five years. After she'd married Susan's father, formerly Death's apprentice, they escaped Death's domain, and settled in as the Duke and Duchess of Sto Helit. Mort and Ysabell had had enough of immortality, and had chosen to die together in a carriage accident.

Susan had spent part of her vacations in Death's Domain, and remembered them fondly. She liked to see the skeletal fish, the black apples, and the unexpected field of corn, rippling in a breeze felt nowhere else in the domain. But she didn't want to stay there.

“No thank you, sir. I am as human as they are—well, mostly human, and I choose mortality as well. It's just that I didn't think I would be choosing it so soon!” The wail that she'd suppressed before escaped her. “You shouldn't have come! Take me back now.”

I COULD TAKE YOU PLACES YOU HAVE NOT SEEN.

“S-Such as?” She was sputtering, trying not to cry.

HAVEN'T YOU EVER WANTED TO SEE THE FLOWER CLOCK OF QUIRM?

“No, can't say as I have. Flowers don't interest me, going all goopy and floppy after one day.”

COR CELESTI? THE HUB OF THE GODS?

“Only if I can spit in their eyes. They hold the threads, don't they? And you just pick them up—isn't that what you've always said? That Lady Luck is a real bitch.” Not one for self-pity, she nevertheless huddled within her cloak. Her hair, all white except for one black streak, began to unwind itself from the tight bun she kept it in. Now it looked like writhing snakes seeking targets, and, unseen to them, a cutpurse who was sneaking up behind her froze in his tracks. She shook her head, releasing the snakes, and let her hair coil around her shoulders. Released from his trance, the thief spun around, raced to the temple of Offler the Crocodile-Headed, and made an offering renouncing his Thieves' Guild membership for life. He became a successful acolyte, and then priest, only occasionally snipping off the choicest pieces of the burnt offerings.

SUSAN. I CAN TELL YOU TWO MORE THINGS. YOU WILL DIE PROTECTING SOMEONE YOU CARE ABOUT, AND YOU WILL NOT BE ALONE AFTERWARDS.

“Afterwards? Who? Lobsang?  
The embodiment of time had visited her a time or two in the paper cabinet of her room at Miss Frout's academy, but he hadn't appeared for years.

EVERYONE CAN CHOOSE THE AFTERLIFE THEY THINK THEY DESERVE. YOU CAN AS WELL.

“Well, that makes it all better!”

SUSAN.

“Please take me back now.”

DEATH threw his curry dish into a waste barrel and they remounted Binky. She hurried into the house without a goodbye. After all, she'd see him again in a month. She was a sensible and relatively honest person, so when she returned to the house, she explained to Gwenny and Lanny's parents that she had to leave. They fussed for only a second, eyes falling under hers. They couldn't have explained exactly what they were seeing, except that they were reminded everyone had a skeleton under their skin.

When she left, she realized she had no idea where to go. Probably she'd stay at a good inn, but she didn't want to go to sleep now. She headed off to one of the few places she'd ever felt comfortable.

Biers was swinging tonight, in its quiet and dark way. The drinks had arrived on time, and customers were cheerful. Igor had experimented with cocktails, but only a few of them had stuck. The Neck-Bolt was popular, as was the Screwdriver. For trolls they put real screws in it. Susan scanned the dark corners, and her mouth quirked. Sergeant Angua and Corporal Sally were staring in amazement at an actual normal human who'd come in and attempted to pick them up. For him not to realize what they were was one thing—they never advertised being a werewolf and a vampire—but for him to ignore their Watch uniforms was another thing entirely.

She came over to the table. Humans had certain predictable prejudices—she said to the unlucky fellow, “Oh, I see you're just leaving. Thanks for keeping my girlfriends entertained.” And she leaned over to kiss the surprised Angua and Sally on the mouth.

“Well!” said Sally, who recovered first. “Angua, you never said you were two-timing me with this hussy!”

“Oh, shut up. Susan, you look like a thunderhead of trouble. Sit.”

Once she'd sat down, she couldn't think how to start, so she leaned over and stole Angua's drink. It was terrible.

“Why do you keep ordering that! It's old boots with a cherry on it.”

“But sometimes I like to chew old boots,” smiled the werewolf. “Get your own drink. Oh, here, I'll get one for you. Talk to Sally.”

In a few minutes they all had fresh drinks again, and Susan had explained the visit from her grandfather. She pushed her hair severely back in its bun, pinning it, but it untwisted and started moving restlessly again.

“He offered me immortality! In Death's Domain!” Then she had to explain the Domain to them. After a few minutes Sally caught Angua's eye, who nodded.

“Susan,” said Sally, very seriously. “You don't want to go to Death's—to your grandfather's house, but have you considered any other forms of immortality?”

She looked at them, frowning, and they looked back at her.

“Either way, Susan,” said Angua. “You could let one of us change you—either Sally or me. Then you'd still have a life, an after-life, here on the Disc, wherever you wanted to live.”

She was quiet. Did she want that? What would happen—would Death think she was trying to cheat him? She didn't realize she'd said the last sentence aloud.

“No, because you'd be dead. Undead. Anyway,” said Sally, “think it over. The offer will stand.” 

Then they'd all gotten drunk and she forgot about finding an inn. Angua led her to Mrs. Cake's, fumbling with the latch, and she walked through the door and opened it for her.  
“Didn't know you could do that,” Angua said. “You could have a next career as a house-breaker. Of course then I'd have to arrest you.”

“Never mind,” said Susan. “Let me lie down anywhere.”

“Here, take this side. Oh, wait, I'll just change and sleep in the basket. Don't peek!”

“Angua? Do you want to come up here? To...be with me?”

“Um, only to sleep. Carrot and I are a committed couple.”

“Of course.” But she was a little disappointed anyway.

The next day she walked through Ankh-Morpork, trying to think how she wanted to spend the next month. Spend the rest of her life. She should have asked to borrow Binky—there were after all a few people from Quirm she'd like to see again. She'd never been to Genua, to hear the jazz festivals. Then she realized that she hadn't seen the people from Quirm for seven years, and didn't even like jazz. Go to XXXX? Strange wildlife there, but she didn't really like animals. She could have gone to Agatea, or just over the Circle Sea to Klatch—she'd hardly traveled at all, except to do her grandfather's rounds when he sloped off occasionally. You didn't see the best of a country when you were collecting souls.

Carrot and Angua caught up with her when she passed Pseudopolis Yard.  
“Hello, Lady Susan,” said Carrot. “Angua told me, and well, I wondered if you'd ever seen much of the city? You've been here awhile, I know, but...”

“We changed to the day shift so we could walk with you,” said Angua. “You should go with Carrot. He knows the most amazing things about the City. Don't take her to Dwarf Bread museum, Carrot, but anywhere else's okay.”

“Why not the Dwarf Bread museum?”

“Mmmm,” said Angua, “it mostly appeals to dwarfs. It's old stony bread—alright, Carrot, but remember, she's only got a day here.”

So Carrot didn't take her there, but they went to the most amazing areas she'd ever seen. He took her to the small new park in the Dragon's Landing, just opened with a tiny perfect lake, to the restoration workshop of the art museum, to several BS Johnson exhibits in private estates. He even showed her, with embarrassment, where several chubby stone infants peed into the fountains Johnson had created. They ate lunch in a good delicatessen (not Yo Rat!), having ham and cheese sandwiches with perfectly crunchy bread, and watched the yeasty bread making there. They headed to the Patrician's Palace in the afternoon, for another historical museum, although by this time Susan was tired. 

“What's here, Carrot?”

“Oh, Lord Vetinari has this genius in one of his basements. He'll take you down there. Leonard of Quirm.”

Lord Vetinari didn't come in person, of course, but had his senior assistant, Drumknott, take them through the hidden patterns of the hallways leading them to Leonard.

Susan was indeed amazed. The sculptor-painter-inventor-genius had a head which didn't seem that large, just that the dome had pushed up through his hair like a mountain above the tree line. He was excited to have visitors in his basement studio/prison and bustled around, demonstrating everything.

There was so much to see in the crowded workshop, from a prototype of a flying machine, to Leonard's exquisite drawings of kittens and raindrops on rose petals. (She didn't miss the little doodles of weapons in the corners, even if Carrot did). He had a large collection of birds' eggs, from tiniest hummingbirds to a giant one from some bird in XXXX. There were suits of armor, paints, pencils, chalks, an entire cabinet of papers which would make her students ill with envy, and when they left, she took a small black and white sketch of herself.

“That's very valuable, Lady Susan,” said Carrot. “I've seen a sketch not much bigger than that in the art museum appraised at $200.” A year's income for a watchman.

That was the first day. As she lay in Angua's bed after another round at Biers, she decided that she did want to see someone after all. She hesitated, not quite sure of the process. She'd never summoned DEATH before—she knew there was the awful rite of AshkEnte, but she wasn't going to use that. He hated it, hated the interruption, and besides, she didn't know the ritual. She lay curled up in the sheets which smelled faintly of dog, and concentrated.

'Please come,' she whispered. Then she tried it again, with the voice. PLEASE COME.  
She felt the faintest whisper of air.  
SUSAN.


End file.
